KNEE FORECASTING

Red sky at morning: Sailors take warning.

On the way to work today, the sky is gorgeous.  It's red and orange and yellow and purple, and while the view is magnificent, the old adage stays with me.  It is the 40th anniversary of the Blizzard of '78, and we are due for snow tomorrow.

I am already annoyed that the school district hasn't called an early release or cancelled school for tomorrow.  Maybe I'll be lucky and I won't get caught in it, but I know that luck has zero to do with it.  The weather forecasters say snow IS coming, the red sky morning says snow IS coming, and now, the truest predictor of all ...

My knee.

My knee trouble started two nights ago when the temperature change and the first quick snow system moved through.  I couldn't sleep for a long time because of knee pain.  Since then, my knee pain has been off and on, Tonight, though, I cannot go down stairs without pain.

Guess what, kids!  IT'S GOING TO SNOW. Red sky at morning is sign #1.  A screaming knee is the other.  My forecast = Worse storm than anyone is expecting, but about two feet of snow less than the Blizzard of '78.

SUPER BOWLIEST POST

Look, kids, I'm really sorry about the Patriots.  I had flashbacks watching them crash and burn, which they did, even if you don't want to admit it.  They looked like a mid-level team having a mediocre game.  That was NOT Super Bowl quality ball work out there by the Boys from Boston; this was classic 80's inconsistency.

The Eagles, on the other hand, looked great.  You can argue that the officials tipped the scales a little, but, in the end, there was no way the Patriots were going to win.  They bobbled and wobbled all over that field.  They stunk the joint out a bit. The Eagles played better, stayed better, and prevailed.  Good for them!  Clearly the better team at the game won that game.

The commercials, though, ranged from hilarious to lame.  It was horrible ... HORRIBLE ... trying to get through the game with the number of commercials.  I don't think I'll ever watch a Super Bowl again that is 75% ad time and 25% play time.  It was boring as hell.  I finally resorted to taking a shower during the third quarter, and I only missed two minutes of play time and twelve minutes of commercials.  Why, why, why so many ads for TV shows? I mean, I'm watching TV and would love NOT to be reminded of that every thirty seconds.  I. Am. Trying. To. Watch. Sports. 

The half-time show was okay.  I know some people hated it and some people loved it.  I put it somewhere in the middle.  No Janet Jackson nipple.  JT did all right for an aging teeny-bopper.  But, again, did it have to be so frigging long?  Honestly, this is no longer a sporting even.  It was like watching a cross between America's Funniest Home Videos and the MTV Music Awards, only longer and more monotonously boring. 

But, JT did bring out the best social media post of the night.  Nope, it wasn't the game; nope, it wasn't the commercials.  Justin Timberlake did this with his outfit.  First of all, what was with his pants?  Did he forget his pants and borrow some from a female dancer half his height?  Am I the only who noticed his crotch was between his knees and his dance moves resembled an arthritic geriatric?  It looked like his thighs were rubber-banded together.

That shirt, though.  Oh, that shirt. 

And so the best post on social media belongs to Justin Timberlake's shirt, courtesy of the late Bob Ross.  Folks, if you get this, you might be older than dirt, but it's the funniest thing on the Internet that came out of the Super Bowl.  Enjoy, and to the late Bob Ross, social media thanks you.  It really, really thanks you.

BEST BAGELS BY ME!

While trolling through social media, I come across a post aimed at me.  I know it's aimed at me because the tag-line says, "Heliand, here's a post YOU might LIKE!!!!"  Most of these posts and ads pop up based on something bizarre that I searched for work, like Komodo dragons or the functions of prepositional phrases or how many minutes does it REALLY take to cook a three-minute egg.  I'll admit, though, the photo looks kind of good, and I am kind of hungry.

The post is a recipe for bagels.  "EASY BAGEL RECIPE" it claims.  I peek at the recipe and discover that it requires no yeast, so I can't fuck up that part, and it claims a prep time of about five minutes.  The only downside is that it requires Greek yogurt, the smell of which makes me want to hurl.  Hmmmmm.  A true conundrum.

So I go to the store and add to my list "non-fat plain Greek yogurt."  I need one cup of it, so I buy two small containers.  No way do I want an open container of that Greek yogurt shit in my fridge, stinking up everything else.  Even if it's covered, I swear I can still smell it.

It's about a week before I can drum up the courage to open the yogurt containers necessary to make the dough.  The dough, by the way, is ridiculously easy, and it actually turns out the way the recipe says, even though I am a little loose with the instructions.  I add the yogurt, attempt to hold my nose, but realize that I need both hands for kneading the dough that I need to knead.  (Ya see what I did there?)

I get the dough all ready, separate it into four balls, roll the balls into snakes, form the bagels, and am surprised as hell that my shit looks just like the fancy picture.  It's fucking amazing to me!  After I add the egg white wash on each, I am able to add toppings.  I don't have much in the house, so I make one with sea salt on it, one has cinnamon with brown sugar, and one has cheddar jack cheese.  The fourth one I leave plain.

I do not have high hopes.  I mean, there's no yeast, I don't like Greek yogurt, and I'm a marginal cook.  I fully expect everything to crash and burn, especially when I re-read the instructions and realize that I am supposed to finish it all with a quick stint at 550 degrees.  Jesus, my kitchen is going to catch fire.

I put the bagels into the oven and watch them with utter fascination.  Holy shit!  They're actually cooking, and they look edible!  When the final step comes, my oven barely reaches 500 degrees when I decide the bagels are just right -- golden brown on the edges with crispy bottoms.  I can hardly wrap my head around the fact that they look just like the picture says they should.  It's baffling.

I let the bagels cool down just until I can handle them without saying "Ouch-ouch-ouch" over and over again.  I cut into each one and steal about 1/8th of each bagel.  This is where I don't even have to lie -- each bite tastes better than the one before it.  I seriously cannot decide which one tastes the best.

These bagels are fucking amazing.

So, I'll hook all-y'all up with the recipe and just say the last part of the baking ... don't worry if your oven never reaches 550.  I only set mine to 525 when I realized it would take less time to finish the cooking process than it would to be at the right temperature.  I also just noticed there's a video for them along with the tagline "We are obsessed with these bagels," and I totally believe that the collective "they" truly are obsessed.  I am, too.

Okay, the only recipe I can find is exactly the same except mine cooked at 350 for 22 minutes then I cranked up the oven and left them in for 4-8 more minutes as it warmed up toward 525.  Here's what I found:   https://www.skinnytaste.com/easy-bagel-recipe/

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

I'm having "one of those days."  You know the kind -- Things aren't going right but they're not going wrong, either.  I have a pile of work to get done, plus it's Super Bowl weekend; I have errands to run, and it's chilly and a bit icy outside; I still have that cold a little bit, but I'm feeling better when I wake up (it doesn't take ninety minutes to clear my head).

I'm stuck at the kitchen table doing some work, correcting electronic papers against a rubric -- a monotonous but necessary activity -- when a twinkle catches my attention.  I follow the sparkling ray of light to the tile floor across the room.

It's the light spectrum.  Rainbow-colored shards of light dance across the ceramic, distracting me from the important business of being a teacher.  I follow it up to the window in the back door.  I have forgotten that this morning I tied up the fabric shade to allow sunlight into the back hall.  Actually, I had totally forgotten that I even have a window in the back door.

Sometimes all we need are little signs, small distractions injected into hectic days to remind us that we need to slow down.  You know, a little sign like a window-generated rainbow.

NAMASTE, ASSHOLE

My old college textbooks can never, ever be used by anyone else, so most of them go to the recycle bin as soon as the courses finish.  The reason why my textbooks cannot go back on the shelf as "used" is because I write things in them.

Bad things.  Honest things, but bad, just the same.

Plato's cave allegory?  I make notes in the margins about being one of the wall-dwellers laughing at the enlightened shadows, and my notes are full of colorful language.  As if Plato isn't bad enough, I also insult everyone from Faulkner to Shakespeare, Freud to Piaget, Cotton Mather to Bill Gates. 

Very few are safe from the foul-penned rants of a bored adult college student sitting through a monotonous lecture aimed at younger students.  Many of my text-rants are directed at the instructor and the dry, slow-death delivery of some of those three-plus hour weekly lectures.  I hold on to those memories and, true to a promise to myself, I rarely, if ever, lecture my classes for any length of time lest I totally kill my students' interest in learning.

I am under the mistaken belief that defacing my own textbooks is over, a sport long-gone.  But, I am taking a course through work, and we're reading a book on mindfulness theory and how if affects our teaching.  Not only am I supposed to read and absorb the material, I am supposed to do it calmly and with mindful intent.  Unfortunately, I am mere pages into the book when something the author writes raises my hackles.

I write in the margin: F.U.  I read a little further and write F.U. again.  The next chapter is better, though, with suggestions and strategies to be a better teacher.  I'm excited!  This is the information for which I've been waiting.  And then ... an then ...

And then I read the fateful line: To help individual teachers - and especially young teachers... 

Excuse me?!  Only young teachers are capable of being mindful?  What -- we elderly buggahs are too stupid?  Experienced teachers don't need to relax? 

I have flashbacks to college; I have flashbacks to Plato's cave.  I am academically, intellectually, and professionally insulted all over again, but it's all cool.  I mindfully write Thanks, asshole in the margin, calmly put down the book mid-chapter, breathe deeply, and call it an evening. 

Alas, another textbook that will end up in the trash.  Namaste.

BEER AND BLACKBERRIES

I've fallen off the wagon, so to speak.  No, not THAT wagon.  I've fallen off the Take Good Care of Myself wagon.

Sure, when I go out snowshoeing or walking, I do just fine, but I've gotten out of the habit.  I'd love to jog, but it's not something my body enjoys AT ALL.  My lungs hate it, my back hates it, and my capacity for boredom hates it. Jogging.  Is.  Boring.

I know, I know; you're going to tell me if I find jogging boring, I must be doing it wrong.  True.  I love jogging through the woods and all that cross-country stuff, but I also know that as a lone woman and living near wildlife, jogging alone in the woods isn't a very bright idea.  I did it a few times, even after the turkeys surprised me on the wooden bridge over the pond.  I never "jogged" so damn fast in my life.

I used to lift weights.  I liked that just fine, but, again, boring.  BORING.  Do this machine, follow this circuit, stop at this weight bench... Worse than the repetitive monotony, the people at the gym around me refused to wipe down the equipment.  Thanks, but no thanks, I am WELL AWARE of how ringworm spreads.

And how, pray tell, am I aware of that?  Martial Arts.  For a while, since my boys were doing it, I tried judo.  Loved it; sucked at it.  (And, no, I never got ringworm, but men, for the love of gawd, wash your damn gis!)  I need much more repetitive practice than I could get in ninety-minute judo classes twice a week or so, but I didn't have any other time available.  It helped with my balance and all, and I had fabulous abs for a while, but foot surgery ended judo for me for good.

I've been rather aimless lately without any kind of organized physical activity, so instead I've concentrated on eating better, cutting out synthetic vitamin supplements and relying on healthier food choices.  Well, except for an occasional chocolate and my worst passion, which is crackers.  Damn, I do love crackers and almost every kind of bread there is in the entire world.

Tonight, while feeling somewhat guilty after eating a piece and a half of cheese pizza and having some French fries, I attempt to be healthy (not that pizza is horrible, but fries sure are).  I try, but it's not working for me.  My work life is stressful and sucks somewhat right about now.

So, folks, I'm here to admit that tonight's health regimen is BEER AND BLACKBERRIES.  I figure the beer has hops and grains and things like that, and the blackberries are loaded with antioxidants.  There must be something healthy happening in there somewhere.  I'm not eating crackers and I have almost entirely given up any kind of soda.  Beer and blackberries must be healthier, right?

Oh, well.  I just have to make it through the week.  January was a tough, tough, TOUGH month at work, but now that it's February, I'm going to pay more attention to me and my health.  I don't know if I will be successful in that endeavor, but I can tell you with great gusto that I have successfully completed something:

The beer and blackberries are gone ... and it only took fifteen minutes!  There has to be some merit in that.

IRONIC ICE LIMERICK

Yesterday there was some snow
And winds that did cause it to blow
Although it did suck
To my car snow was stuck
And so I did scrape to and fro

Today when I get out of work
I walk to my car with a smirk
Finally, I'm free!
Wait! What's this that I see?
Ice clings to my car?!  Damn!  YOU JERK!

(Yup.  A clump of ice still clings to my windshield.  Everyone else's cars?  Clean and clear.  I hate my life.)